I don't know if it's my newfound caffeine addiction or the heightened visibility of local white supremacists But I've found myself on red alert a lot more recently And not in the way I expected Survival is no longer my highest priority The jaws of oblivion grip on to me tighter than fear of my own mortality I've resigned to the idea that I will most likely die soon, It's not a question of if, but when. Each new hashtag and post mortem gofundmes ringing through Twitter brings forth one question for me. Am I next?
I don't mind dying. The thought brings me more peace than panic. By my hands or a chokehold. Dying is one thing, but to be forgotten? Who will remember me when I'm gone? Perhaps all I am destined to be is an extra in someone else's motion picture. That name you can't quite put your finger on. That face you snap your fingers to remember but your memory fails you. Perhaps my flame was never bright enough for someone to burn down cities in my name. Perhaps my last words will not be loud enough for even one person to hear. I guess we'll find out.
